The Parchment: A Marauders' Map Tale
by cylobaby
Summary: Ever wonder why the Marauders' Map was able to respond to Snape that day? What if it wasn't just coincidence? Oneshot.


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Harry Potter sat at the edge of his desk in number 12 Grimmauld Place, scribbling fast on a pale piece of parchment, creating black mountains of ink that morphed into the words of his novel. He blew a long lock of ebony hair from his eyes, barely noting the way it just fell back onto his thin black glasses once more.

One floor below, Harry could hear the sounds of one of his best friends and his fiancé bustling about in the kitchen. He could imagine Ron accidentally setting fire to whatever Hermione was attempting to cook now. Now that Voldemort was finally gone, Harry had no qualms about letting the engaged couple stay at his inherited house until they found a place of their own. The boy had offered them permanent residence, but they had argued, saying that he had enough on his mind as it was.

During what would have been Harry's last year of Hogwarts if he had ever gone, Voldemort had made the final confrontation. Slowly, Harry had been able to eliminate all the Horcruxes that were spread throughout England and the rest of the world, so soon the rest of Voldemort's soul were divided between the long deadly python Nigina and the Lord Voldemort himself. Once learning that Harry worked part time at a Muggle police force in the area close to Sirius's old house, the madman had sent his Death Eaters out in full force to eliminate all of the hard-working non-magical people that Harry had been affiliated with. Once Hermione had eliminated the serpent, Harry was locked in a duel to the death with Voldemort. In the end, it was only a timely distraction by Rosia, Harry's albino phoenix, that gave the boy the strength to perform the horrifying Avada Kendavra.

Harry jotted down another word, but was distracted by laughter floating up from the kitchen again. With a light frown upon his lips, Harry muttered a Silencing Charm around his room, leaving only the light rustling of Rosia's feather to disturb his concentration.

Dipping his quill once more in the inkwell that rested by his right arm, Harry wrote, 'revved the engine of his beloved flying motorcycle and flew off into the night.' With an impatient moan, he scratched out 'flew off into the night' and replaced it with the less repetitive and more detailed 'zoomed into the velvety black night air until he was nothing but a red star on the horizon to the Potters watching from below.'

After Voldemort's death, Harry had begun thinking of all the deaths that that one twisted man had caused. With the pain of Sirius's death renewed, Harry had made a vow that he would not let Sirius's name be wiped from the earth. Immediately, he had set to work interviewing his godfather's old friends, and past girlfriends, and began writing the life of Sirius down to be bound forever in a book. Sirius's life would be remembered and learned by many. Harry was not unaware that most people would read the book only because it was written by the famous Harry Potter, but knew that Sirius's name deserved to be remembered forever.

Harry reached over and stroked Rosia's ivory feathers. The bird cooed softly and watched him with intelligent black eyes. With a sigh, Harry reached for his quill, and realized he was out of parchment.

He threw open the drawer beside him in frustration, but found that he had used the last of his supply. He looked through the drawers rapidly, eager to catch the thought that was waiting at the point in his quill. Finally, in the bottom drawer, laid neatly with other old school supplies was a piece of parchment. Barely noticing that it was yellowed and wrinkled with age, he set it on his desk and began to write. 'Sirius took off the midnight black helmet that he had put on only for the sake of Mrs. Potter in the first place and accelerated the engine. "Let's see how fast you can go," he murmured, running a loving hand over the slick black metal of the machine."

With a jolt, Harry saw other words forming on the parchment below his entry. Drawn back to a harsh memory in his second year, the Gryffindor jumped back in his plush blue velvet chair and stared as the words began to take form.

'**Hey, that's my name!'**

'_**It also has my name.'**_

'**Last names don't count. Potter's bloody common nowadays.'**

'_Mr. Moony would like to point out that Mr. Padfoot and Mr. Prongs are complete imbeciles. There is a reason we made codenames.'_

'Mr. Wormtail would like to agree with Mr. Moony, but would like to state that Mr. Padfoot and Mr. Prongs have every right to be surprised.'

'_That doesn't mean they have to give away our names!'_

'**Did you read it? It was talking about me!'**

'_I know, Si- Mr. Padfoot. Shut up before the writer sees us!'_

Harry was frozen, jaw dropped as his hazel eyes whizzed back and forth, reading and rereading the words. He looked over at Rosia and gave her soft plumage a few rapid strokes, making sure he was still in touch with reality.

Harry, filled with a boiling curiosity and hope, dipped his quill into the ink again and wrote, 'Are you the Marauders?'

'**_Now look what you did, mate!'_**

'**You did it, too!'**

'**_Mr. Prongs denies that he has ever done anything like that before.'_**

'**Well, Mr. Padfoot would like to argue that he did and that it is written earlier on the paper in Mr. Prongs' own handwriting. Ha ha.'**

'_Shut up you two! Mr. Moony would like to ask who would like to know whether we are the Marauders.'_

'Mr. Wormtail agrees with Mr. Moony.'

Breath increasing rapidly, Harry wrote two words with intense deliberation. 'Harry Potter.'

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End file.
